I enjoyed some of Marvell's early pastoral poems, pushed through ten verses about his aristocratic patron's house and garden, and balked at the prospect of another 90 panegyric verses about m'lord's other, presumably nine-times-more-splendid, gaff. With more prospect-balking in consideration of poems extolling Cromwell's genocidal campaigns in Ireland, I gave it up in default of having world enough, and time. ( )